The Length of God's Patience
by xahra99
Summary: It's the right of all Assassins to die fighting-or, failing that, falling from a great height. Malik struggles with the loss of his arm and his new position as Head of the Jerusalem Assassin's Bureau. In progress. Spoilers.NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

The Length of God's Patience

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter One_.

"We're going to have to take your arm," the Masyaf surgeon said calmly.

Malik was aware that he had no choice, but he said "Do it," anyway because it felt like it gave him some measure of control. It had been two days since he had been wounded in the Temple of Solomon; more than long enough for him to know that his left arm was past saving.

Malik gritted his teeth as the surgeon ran gentle fingers down his sleeve. As the man touched his hand he yelped despite his best efforts. Even light pressure was agony. The fingers of Malik's left hand were dark and misshapen and curled under like an ill-fitting glove. It smelt. And it hurt.

"What did this?"

"A mace," Malik said briefly.

The surgeon nodded, as if Malik had confirmed his suspicions."Have you eaten?"

"Not since yesterday."

The surgeon nodded his head, satisfied. "Good. Then we'll begin." He turned to a trestle table that had been set up in the corner of the room and poured a flask of alcohol into a bowl.

There were a hundred questions Malik could have asked him, but he didn't want to know the answers, so he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There were cracks in the plaster, and a tiny spot that might have been dried blood or spilled wine or damp.

He knew that he should be satisfied. He had obeyed the Creed. He had retrieved the artifact. He had not compromised the Brotherhood. If he'd lost his arm, then so be it. He knew many men who would not have considered it a bad trade.

But he wasn't satisfied. He was angry. In pain, yes; and frightened (even if he tried not to admit it to himself) but mostly angry. He'd lost a brother and he was about to lose a limb.

_And if that…if _Altaїr_ had remembered the Creed and acted as we had agreed; I would not be in this position…_

He was distracted from his thoughts as the door swung open. Two Assassins filed in. Their scarves were pulled up to hide their faces, but even so Malik could see from the look in their eyes that they wanted to be here even less than he did. He tried to put them at their ease. "How goes the fight?" He would have liked it if somebody had bothered to put him at his ease, but the surgeon wasn't good at small talk.

The surgeon leaned over him. "Hush. That is none of your concern. It will be as God wills it."

Malik bit his tongue. He would have liked to retort that it _was_ his concern, as the castle would likely be razed to the ground when the siege succeeded, but it was never wise to antagonize your surgeon.

"Are you ready?" asked the surgeon.

Malik thought _No_, but he said, "I am."

The surgeon gestured to the two Assassins. They stepped to either side of Malik and gripped his arms, firmly but not roughly. The surgeon turned to the long bench on which he had laid his instruments. He tied a scarf around his own face and withdrew a sponge from a small sealed pot. "Breathe deeply," he said, and held the sponge to Malik's face.

Malik did as he was ordered, and breathed in.

The sponge smelt sweet at first, but it had a lingering bitter aftertaste that caught in Malik's throat. As he exhaled, his consciousness drifted away. It was a quicksilver, disorientating feeling; as if he had been thrown from a tower, but it felt good enough that Malik didn't care when the surgeon reached behind him and picked up a long, curved knife.

Malik noticed that the Assassin closest to the surgeon, was sweating. He opened his mouth to tell the man that there was nothing to be concerned about, that everything was as it should be. He inhaled again, and all that he could see was sun on the wall, and bright blue sky.

***

The pain came later, when he woke.

Malik was no stranger to discomfort, but the pain in his arm was severe enough that he lost all capacity to think, to move, to do anything other than simply exist. His throat was raw. There was a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had been, and there was a pale stain on the floor where blood had been scrubbed away. The small room was empty apart from Malik and his pallet.

He slept eventually, despite the pain. When he woke the bandages were soaked through. His skin throbbed, as if it was too tight. Darkness followed blinding sunlight as time flowed and ebbed like the river. Sometimes when he woke the room was empty, and sometimes the surgeon was there; changing Malik's bandages, or regarding him with a disapproving expression, like his weapons masters had when he hadn't trained hard enough. He pressed cool fingers to the pulse in Malik's good hand, and thumbed his eyelids open to peer into his eyes.

"Fever," he said.

Malik told him that that was ridiculous. He called the surgeon a quack, and told him that he couldn't have a fever because he was colder than a mountain winter. He cursed him and said other things that he could never remember, later. The words slipped away like the days. He tried to keep track of time passing by reckoning bandage changes, but sometimes he woke up and the dressing was clean, and sometimes it wasn't. He soon lost count. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

And then one evening he woke, and he was still not dead. The last of the drug-fueled haze wisped away like smoke through a window, and Malik could think again.

The surgeon looked up from his work. He doubled a linen bandage neatly over the stub that was all that remained of Malik's arm and began to circle the bandage up towards his shoulder. Malik shifted to make the man's job easier. The wound was neat flesh, already healing.

The surgeon looked up. "Good," he said, his voice as dry as dust. "You're awake."

Malik nodded.

"Your arm is healing well. Pray that the wound does not get infected again."

"What if it gets infected?" Malik asked. He felt a coward for even asking, but it was his arm.

"If it does," the surgeon said with as much passion as if you had asked him the best way to sharpen a knife, "you will probably die."

"Probably?" Malik coughed and spat. His throat hurt.

"As Allah wills it." The doctor dug in his robe and produced a little packet of dark leaves. He opened the packet and handed a couple of the leaves to Malik. "Chew on this. It will help your throat."

"Did I scream?"

"You nearly died. Of course you screamed. Everyone screams. There's no shame in it."

"I wasn't shamed."

"That's good."

The compassion in the doctor's eyes scared Malik worse than the knives had. There was little to be learned by finding out how long he'd been asleep, so he asked "How went the siege?"

"Well, as you can see, we are still alive."

"Don't mock me. The Crusaders?"

"Defeated."

Malik nodded, pleased. He reached behind with his right arm to lever himself upright. His head swam. The movement was more difficult than he had expected. Surprised at how weak he was, he mentioned it to the surgeon, who nodded.

"Unsurprising. You've been here for a while. And it'll be longer before you're allowed to do anything besides rest."

Malik rubbed a hand across his jaw and felt stubble. "What happened to Altaïr?"

The surgeon shrugged. "Demoted."

Malik almost smiled. Demoted wasn't as good as dead, but it was better than nothing.

"It's not healthy to hold a grudge. You've got more to worry about, I'd say. I'll tell the Master you have awakened. No doubt he has some task for you in mind." He handed Malik a tiny vial. The liquid inside was dark and smelt musty and sweet like the sponge. "Drink this after the leaves. It will help you rest." He looked critically at Malik, as if he was a horse that wasn't worth buying. "I will visit you later. Try to rest."

"I'll be here."

The surgeon left.

Malik turned the bottle in his hand. He flopped back on the pallet and dragged his remaining arm over his eyes to shade them from the sun that shone blindingly from the whitewashed walls.

He thought of all the ways he would make Altair suffer.

It was the right of an Assassin to die fighting, or, failing that, falling from a great height. He felt like a knife without a handle, trained for war, and utterly useless.

_The Master has plans for you_, the surgeon had said. Lying on the pallet, Malik knew that whatever they were, they would not be worth the loss of his brother and his arm. What use was a one-armed Assassin? He'd seen men maimed in duty, but hadn't bothered to wonder what became of them.

Eventually, he slept again.

He woke when somebody in a white robe pushed the door open. At first he thought that it was the surgeon, but the silhouette was too stooped, too _old_.

It was Al Mualim.

Malik struggled to a sitting position. "Master?"

Al Mualim walked over to Malik's bed. He did not sit, but stood, staring at Malik down his long nose. "You did well," he said. "Anything I have in my power to grant you, you may ask."

Malik didn't hesitate. "Kill Altair," he said.

The Master shook his head. "That is not an option."

"He's a fool."

"No."

"At least let me take his arm. That is a fair trade."

The master shook his head again. "I said that you might ask for anything. I did not say I would agree. The Brotherhood needs Altaïr. We-_I_-have plans that require his presence."

Malik was clever enough not to ask what those plans were. He said nothing instead, and they stood staring each other, the young Assassin and the old, while the setting sun through the window turned the air to honey. Malik thought that Al Mualim would assign him a new task. But the old man said nothing and eventually he grew impatient. "Forgive me," he said cautiously. "But I have questions. The object I found-"

"It is nothing." Al Mualim said immediately. "You ask too many questions. But your curiosity may yet serve you well." He tapped on the floor and another Assassin came in with an armload of books. He deposited the books on the floor by Malik's bed and left.

Malik glanced at the stack. "You would make a scholar out of me?"

"Not exactly." Al Mualim said. He considered Malik with sharp hawk's eyes. "You shall take Mahmoud's place as _dai_ of Jerusalem."

"_Dai_?" Malik could hardly believe his ears. "_Jerusalem_?"

The Master frowned and shifted as if his legs pained him, but he did not sit. "You believe I do you a great favor. In truth I do you none. It is past time for Mahmoud to be recalled. The Regent Madj Addin has grown suspicious. I shall arrange a new office for you. You will be a copyist and cartographer; a dealer in rare manuscripts."

Malik knew rather less about rare manuscripts than a donkey knew of flight. "I do not object, but surely there are others more worthy than I," he said carefully.

"I have faith in you. Living among the people is difficult. It is easy to follow our Creed in Masyaf with the Brotherhood all around you. It is considerably more difficult to live among the people and conceal your true identity. But you will not lose your way. And I think you already have a talent for scholarship."

Malik shook his head. Al Mualim was wrong, he could not tell the old man that he had erred. "As you wish, Master."

"You will move to your new quarters tomorrow. I shall have books sent to you. It is essential that you read them. I need you fit to travel to Jerusalem in two weeks. You shall train with Rauf once you are fit to fight."

"If this is what you wish."

"I do. In your spare time, I suggest that you practice your script."

Malik bowed, as well as he could manage. When he looked up, the old man had gone. Malik felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck.

_That is not natural. Nobody that old should move that silently._

He reached down for the books with the hand he didn't have and felt a flash of irritation. As he reached awkwardly across the bed with his right hand, his fingers hit the vial that the surgeon had left before he found the warm leather of the bindings. Malik retrieved the vial and held it up to the light. The liquid inside was a very dark red; the color of blood. The lid was sealed with wax. Malik made no move to crack the lid. He'd spent enough time asleep. He didn't need drugging. He wanted his mind sharp.

Nevertheless, he tucked the vial into the straw mattress of the pallet instead of throwing it away. After he had hidden the bottle, he threw the covers off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

The first thing he noticed was that his body felt different. Unbalanced. Wrong. He could feel the power of Al Mualim's apple still tingling in the fingertips of his missing hand, and the stump stung like salt, but there was a gap where his elbow used to be.

His head felt like he had spent too long in the sun.

Malik put his head in his hands.

As he only had one hand remaining, his chin slipped from the palm of his right hand and he went down, catching the floorboards with the tip of his fingers just in time to save himself from an undignified sprawl on the floor.

_Would that I had my time again_, he thought furiously as he righted himself. _I would stab Altaïr in the throat and tell everybody the Crusaders killed him._

He pushed the books out of the way and walked grimly to the window, ignoring the sick feeling in his chest. The distance from the foot of his bed could not have been more than a few lengths, but it felt like a mile and Malik was sweating by the time he reached the window. He leant on the sill and looked out. Beneath him stretched the courtyard of the castle. Flags snapped in the breeze. Their shadows waved over Assassins sparring in the practice-ring below. Malik could see the flat roofs of houses beyond the walls of the keep, and the peaks of the mountains, like dragons' teeth, beyond even that. A hawk soared in an updraft over the valley of the Orontes to his left.

Malik felt blackness encroaching at the edges of his vision. He fought it, concentrating on details, and felt his head begin to clear. He forced himself to visualize each detail of the bird's feathers, its wings, outstretched to grasp the wind, its keen yellow eyes, before he remembered that the eagle was Altaïr's emblem, and turned his head away.

Malik made his way back to the bed, slowly and carefully. When he reached the bed he bent down to move the books, put his left hand out to steady his body as he reached the pallet and fell over again.

Author's Notes:

This story slots in neatly with my previous AC1 canon- it's a prequel to The Straight Path and fits in somewhere after The Cross and the Sword-but it should be able to stand alone. This one's dedicated to my beta reader, Caroline (go check out her art at my livejournal) who's a Malik fangirl. Other Malik fangirls might do worse than checking out doubleleaf's account over at deviantart.

There's not a lot of historical stuff to put here, so I'd like to seize the opportunity for a little self-promotion. Let me know what you thought of this, guys. If you liked this story then review it, and I'll do my best to write more. If you hated it, tell me what parts turned you off, and I'll try to do better next time. Author out.


	2. Chapter 2

The Length of God's Patience

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Two._

_Five days later..._

The floor of the practice arena was already stained with blood. Rauf kicked sand over the mark nonchalantly, his wooden practice sword dangling loosely at his side. "So," he said, looking up at Malik.

"You're a _dai _now."

Malik took offence at the casual comment. "I would have settled for staying _fidai'in_ and have my brother and my arm," he said sharply. "If it were not for Altaïr..."

"Don't think too harshly of Altaïr. He'll do his penance."

Malik snorted. Rauf was always quick to think the best of people. "You're soft."

The fighting master did not rise to Malik's taunts. "Enough of this,' he said calmly."Let us begin. You must learn to fight one-handed."

Malik did not wait. He flexed his fingers around the practice weapon in his right hand and leapt at the other man. Rauf was caught off guard. He fell hard and landed with a gasp on his back in the sand with Malik's blade at his throat. "I can already fight one handed." Malik told him.

Rauf sighed. He used his free left hand to shove Malik's shoulder, using all the leverage the sand at his back gave him. Malik reached instinctively to block him, realized too late that he would have to take his knife away from Rauf's neck to do it, and went down in an undignified and messy sprawl.

"No," Rauf said conversationally. "You can't."

Malik spat sand and curses.

"You are lucky that you lost your left hand." Rauf said from his perch atop Malik's chest

Malik snorted. "Lucky is the last thing that I am." He pushed the Assassin off and scrambled to his feet.

"Al Mualim did you great honor." Rauf called as he rolled aside.

"Whatever I have gained was not worth the price."

"Remember that Altaïr will report to you the next time he visits Jerusalem."

"True." Malik admitted. He felt a slow curl of satisfaction. "I had not thought of that." He recalled Altaïr boasting that he was Malik's superior in both title and ability, and smiled.

"Don't be too hard on him. Altaïr-well, he is Altaïr."

Malik was in no mood to make allowances. "Are we here to talk, or to fight?"

"To fight, of course."

"Then enough. Let's begin."

Rauf crouched down in reply, and the fight began.

It was longer than their first duel by about ten heartbeats. Malik had been taught a dozen techniques for disarming a knife-wielding opponent, but most of them required two hands. He ended up on the sand again; the practice knife sunk a hand-breath into the gravel several feet away.

Rauf studied him. "Again," he said.

Malik was a little more careful the third time. Instead of going straight in with the knife, he feinted and kicked out. He caught Rauf's hip. The fighting master staggered. Malik jerked his leg back just in time to avoid Rauf's hands grabbing for his ankle, but he had forgotten to adjust for his body's altered balance and ended up flat on his back again.

"If I had both arms, you would not best me,' he said angrily as he struggled to his feet.

"Maybe. But as the whole point of you being here is to learn to fight with one, there is nothing to be gained by wishing. Is there?"

"Curse you."

Rauf ignored the insult. "Try this," he said and demonstrated a technique.

Malik groaned and complied.

He staggered back to his rooms some hours later with sand down his robe and bruises all over his body. The room, like his _dai_'s robes, was new. It was slightly more comfortable than a _fidai_ cell, which meant that it was bare and ascetic by most people's standards. Malik's possessions filled a chest by the door. The books Al Mualim had given him were piled on the table by the window.

Malik changed his robes. He lit an oil lamp and sat down at the table. Unrolling the parchment was easy. It was much harder to stop the paper from rolling up again without using his right hand. Finally he weighted the corners of the paper down with the heaviest texts and settled down to write.

Malik had thought that a scholar's life would be easy compared to the hard life of a _fidai_. He soon discovered that he had made a mistake. The text, a treatise on the campaigns of Saladin's uncle Shirkuh, was dull. The small writing was hard to read and worse to copy. Despite his practice, Malik's best script was nowhere near that of a professional scholar. Eventually he gave up, forcing himself to place the quill neatly in the inkwell rather than throwing it across the room, and stared out of the window at the firelight from the village below. When that entertainment palled, he got up and searched the chest for his sash. The cloth was heavier than it should have been, thanks to the vials of medicine knotted into the fabric.

Malik untied the bundle and counted the vials, one by one. There were twelve. The liquid inside each tiny glass bottle gleamed black in the lamplight. Malik cracked the wax seal from the neck of a vial. He poured a drop into his palm and tasted it. _Opium_. _And a few other things, but the opium should be enough._

He had saved all the vials that the surgeon had given him. How deep a sleep would they bring, taken together? Deep enough?

He took the bottles to the window and lined them up on the bare bricks of the sill. The glass glinted with reflected firelight. Malik looked at them for a long time, and then he pushed them from the windowsill, one by one, listening for the sound of shattered glass in the darkness.

When he went down the next morning, he found a mess of shards and split liquid in the courtyard below. He borrowed a broom from the steps of a nearby house and cleaned the debris up without comment before he went to train with Rauf.

He found the techniques easier, this time.

***

Malik left Masyaf for Jerusalem a handful of days later, with a packhorse laden with books and maps and a pouch of gold hidden in his boot. The countryside grew dryer and more desolate as he headed south. He was stopped twice by curious patrols, but neither searched him, and he was able to continue upon his way unaided. By the time he glimpsed the golden roof of the Dome of the Rock it was high summer. His horses' hooves knocked up puffs of dust as he trotted down the steeply curving pass to the city gate.

It was a hot day, and the gate guards, sweating under the weight of a full coat of mail, were short-tempered. Their commander stopped Malik at the gates. "State your business."

Malik reined his horse to a halt. He dismounted to speak face to face to the guards. "My name is Malik al-Sayf. I am a copyist and bookseller."

"That's who you are. Now tell us what you're doing here."

"I have purchased a shop within the city walls." Malik told the commander. "I'm here to work." He trapped the reins of his horse under his upper arm and dug into his robe, handing a few silver dirhams to the guards. "Perhaps this will speed my entry."_Although it would be cheaper to cut you all down. _

The guard looked suspiciously at the dirhams in his hand. He raisedthe coin to his mouth, bit the edge and smiled at last. "You will go far with such an attitude," he said, tucking the coins into his armor.

Malik smiled back. "I hope so."

"Maybe we can help you. Where are you headed?"

"Pearl Street, by the mosque," Malik had memorized the address.

"You can't bring horses into the city. Salim will stable them for you. Or sell them, if you want."

"Sell them. I'm not planning to travel. And my cargo?"

"Porters," The guard waved an arm. A handful of men with small carts appeared, as stealthily as Assassins. Malik's books were loaded onto a pair of handcarts; his purse lightened by a small but not insignificant amount. The guards waved him through the gate and he entered Jerusalem.

It was chaos.

The city's streets were as narrow as Masyaf's but much, much more crowded. Woven lattices overhead blocked much of the sunlight and trapped choking clouds of dust. Alleys ran off from the main thoroughfares at every angle. Malik peered down each street as they passed. _I need to orient myself as quickly as possible. Within the week, at least. _

He tried not to look up at the minarets and towers that studded the city's skyline.

The porters led Malik to a quiet street on the south side of the rich district. They set down their barrows next to a bolted door. "This is it."

Malik looked up at the building. Sagging plaster, bared beams, no sign...the shop didn't look like much from outside.

It didn't look like much from inside either. The porters unloaded the books and vanished into the streets as soon Malik had paid them. They left Malik alone in the shop. He looked around. Shelves lined the shop walls. A heavy teak counter sat in one corner and a raised platform ran along two of the four walls with a ladder leading up to it. As a humble shopkeeper, Malik would be expected to sleep amongst his stock. A dusty rug lay before the counter.

_I'll have to hire somebody to clean this up_, he thought, and went outside.

The courtyard was a little better. It was shaded from the sun by a latticework roof and most of the plants had survived. Pigeons bathed in the water that trickled from a mosaic fountain against one wall. They fluttered up to perch on the trellis as Malik approached. The basin was a mess of pigeon feathers and dirt. Malik had hoped to wash the dust of weeks of journeying from his hands and face. It looked like he would have to wait.

_Or not. I think I saw a bath-house a few streets away._

Malik locked up the shop and found the baths without too much trouble. He hired a towel and soap from an attendant, shed his clothes and ducked into the steam. It was late, and the baths were nearly empty. Once Malik had washed he found a quiet corner where the light from the moon-and- star-shaped skylights did not shine upon his face and relaxed for the first time in many moons.

He was almost asleep when he heard someone enter.

"Greetings."

Malik opened his eyes. "Greetings," he said politely. _Now go away._

The stranger looped his towel over his neck and sat down next to Malik."I thought I knew everyone in this quarter. Who are you?"

Malik sighed. He was not used to explaining himself. Nosy Assassins did not last long. "My name is Malik al-Sayf. I've taken the empty Pearl Street shop. I'm a bookseller."

"Pearl Street? Good luck. Hope you do better than the last man there. Poor devil forgot to pay his bribes."

Malik made a mental note: _pay bribes_. "Who to?"

"You really are new in town, aren't you?"

Malik nodded. "I am. And I would appreciate any advice that you could give me. I have just moved to the city." _And it seems that my masters not given me all the information that I need._

His companion, a fat man with the face of a born merchant, scratched his head." You pay bribes to Madj Addin's men."

"I've heard that name."

"Many have. He's the regent of Jerusalem. He used to be the emir's scribe. Now he rules the city. Takes a cut of everyone's trade."

"How do I find him?"

The man snickered. "Oh, don't worry. He'll find you."

***

Several days passed with no sign of Madj Addin's guards. Malik had almost forgotten the merchant's warning when somebody rapped on the door. The interruption irritated Malik, but so many things did these days.

"We're not open for business yet,"' he called.

"We're not here to buy. Open the door."

Malik considered ignoring the caller. He could hear a group of men outside, not just one. They were armed; he heard the clash of steel on steel. But they'd only return later if he denied them entry, and they'd be angrier when they did. _Best to open the door, and get it over with, _he thought as he slid the bolts.

He'd expected two or three men, but there were five. They carried swords and filed through the door, one after another until the small shop was full. The last man to enter kicked the door shut behind him. Malik's hand strayed to his knife.

Their captain gave Malik a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. "You're Malik al-Sayf. The new bookseller."

_Among other things_. "I am."

The soldier's smile widened. "Welcome to Jerusalem, Malik al-Sayf."

"I had not heard the people here were so hospitable." Malik said dryly. He tugged his robe tighter around him to conceal the dagger in his belt.

The captain yawned. "Well, now you know. I am Captain Yusuf al-Asad."

"My compliments. Do you wish to browse my stock?"

Al-Asad's gaze raked the shabby shelves. "No need. I can see that you're setting up, so we won't trouble you long. We're Majd Addin's men. We keep the streets round here safe. Now, safe doesn't come cheaply, so we levy taxes. The last man to keep this shop did not pay his taxes." He paused, giving Malik enough time to ponder the fate of the last shopkeeper. "That was ...unwise."

Malik met the man's glare with his own. "So I've heard."

Al-Asad looked Malik up and down. He did not look impressed with what he saw. "How'd you lose your arm?"

"Paper cut." Malik snapped. He had been intimidated by professionals. He was not about to be insulted by thugs.

The captain's smile faded. "Looks like a war wound to me. You don't look like a bookseller, that's for sure."

Malik sighed. "Appearances can be deceiving." _Like the scum that passes for guards in this city. How unfortunate that I will almost certainly be forced to kill some of you in the line of duty_. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I worked in Acre for a time, until the _Franj _came. That's where I lost my arm. In the siege."

"Indeed," al-Asad said. He moved closer to Malik, his men at his side. "Maybe you did work in Acre. But your accent places you in the Orontes Valley."

"I was raised in Safita," Malik told him. The mountain town was half a day's journey from Masyaf, but it was unlikely that any man not raised in the area would be able to distinguish between the accent of a Safitan man and Malik's own.

"Hmm. Then you will know of the Assassins?"

Malik treated the question with the scorn it deserved. "_Everyone_ knows of the Assassins."

"So you already know that they send men disguised as scholars, priests and even honest traders into cities to gain the people's trust?" Al-Asad asked.

"I have heard as such," Malik said cautiously.

"Then you will understand than I must satisfy my curiosity. One cannot be too careful. And you have seen battle."

It wasn't a question. Malik nodded. "I was a soldier before I was a salesman."

"A soldier...but no doubt you have been an honest trader for several years?"

"I started work as a bookseller in Safita in the year Saladin reclaimed Jerusalem for the Faith. I moved to Acre later."

"Experienced indeed," al-Asad said dryly.

Malik thought _this man knows too much_, but he said nothing.

Al-Asad continued. "You have the look of an honest man to me, but I must be certain. Indulge me." He jerked his head at one of the other guards without taking his eyes from Malik's. "Bring a book."

"Which one?"

"Any one, fool!" the captain snapped.

The guard plucked a book from the nearest shelf.

"Open it."

The guard hurriedly spread the book open on the counter. Al-Asad leaned in. "Read."

_As if I have a choice_. "Of course, lord."

The captain narrowed his eyes, unimpressed by the flattery. Malik leaned forwards and began to recite the text. He had not finished more than a couple of passages before the captain set another book on the counter. "Read this one."

The new text was older; the language archaic. Malik read it slowly.

"And this?" The captain opened a third book.

Malik peered at the text with a sinking feeling in his heart. The script was ancient, indecipherable. He turned slowly to the first page, buying time.

"What's the matter?" Al-Asad taunted. "Can't you read? I thought you were a scholar."

_Only a scholar would know this tongue_, Malik thought_. What is the chance a simple captain of the guards would understand? _He cleared his throat and spoke, substituting the first passage from Nizari's _Tale of Layla and Majnun_ for the text he could not read. "Once there lived among the Bedouin in Arabia a great lord, a sayyid, who ruled over the Banu Amir..."

He read the whole first page, substituting words for sections of the text he could not remember, banking on the fact that al-Asad's knowledge of ancient Persian romances was as sketchy as his understanding of ancient languages. Once he had recited the first page he hesitated and looked up at the captain. "Should I go on?"

"You may stop." Al-Asad bit the words off as if Malik had struck him.

Malik closed the book. "You mentioned taxes."

"Eleven dirhams."

Malik dug under the counter for a purse. The captain handed it to another guard, who counted out fifteen dirhams and handed the purse back.

"You said eleven."

"You misheard."

Malik bowed. "Of course, lord. I hope my small contribution will help."

The guard handed Malik's money to al-Asad, who tucked it in his armour. "Let's go, men. It seems we have an honest man here after all." He gestured to his men, who began to file out the door. As the last man left al-Sadat turned and said quietly to Malik, "I will be watching you, bookseller."

_And I will be watching you_. Malik said silently as the door slammed behind the captain and his men.

***

Author's Note: I did research one-armed combat techniques, but I couldn't find any, probably because it's insanely difficult. So I had to hand wave it a bit. The Tale of Layla and Majnun is a Persian Rome and Juliet type story. Go read it. Islamic physicians were using inhalant anesthetics in the eleventh century and opium was widespread as a method of pain relief.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed!


	3. Chapter 3

The Length of God's Patience

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Three_.

The letter was succinct.

_To the dai of Jerusalem, greetings_

_I am sending Altair to you. I have ordered him to kill Talal, a slave trader of the city. He must work alone, although you are free to point him in the direction of information as you wish. Once he has completed his mission, send him back to Masyaf. It is a long journey, but it will teach him humility_

_Safety and peace._

Malik smiled.

Assassins did not have friends. They had allies and they had enemies, a shifting pattern of alliances that moved like sand. Altair was a brother of the Creed and therefore an ally, but he was not a friend.

He spent the rest of the day taking a savage delight in making life as hard for Altair as possible. Talal was not a private man, and it was easy for Malik to find out the basic information that Altaïr would require. He did not bother to search for more.

Altaïr entered the Bureau through the garden later in the day. His features were impassive, but there was a dejected air about him.

"Safety and peace, Malik."

"Your presence here deprives me of both," Malik said. "What do you want?"

He listened as Altaïr stumbled through his mission, and sent him on his way with the bare minimum of information. When the other Assassin had gathered more, he sent him out with a feather and hoped that he would fail. To his disappointment, Altaïr did not. He appeared scant hours after Malik had dispatched him, a bloodied feather gripped tightly in his right hand and a satisfied look in his eyes.

"The deed is done," he informed Malik. "Talal is dead."

Malik sighed. "The whole city knows. Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?"

Altaïr's eyes narrowed. "A skilled Assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many."

"A skilled Assassin maintains control of his environment!"

"We can argue the details all you want, Malik, but the fact remains that I've completed the task assigned to me by Al Mualim."

"Go then," Malik said quietly. "Return to the old man. Let us see with who he sides."

Altaïr left the feather on Malik's desk and slipped out of the door. 'You and I are on the same side, Malik!" he called from the courtyard.

_We are not_, Malik thought as the other Assassin left.

The rest of the week passed quietly. Malik sent a pigeon to Al Mualim to notify the Master of Altaïr's success and his own safe arrival. He even sold a few books. He spent his free time on Jerusalem's streets, learning the layout of every alley and courtyard.

It was easier than he had anticipated. Jerusalem's layout wasn't too complex. The rich district where the bureau was located was at the east of the city, the poorer districts to the south and west. Malik saved the poor quarter until last. The streets were busier in the slums and the air was filled with chatter and cooking smells, the squawks of the chickens that ran between everyone's feet and the clash of metal on metal from the smith's quarter. Malik bought dates and bread from the market and sat down on the steps of a fountain to eat.

_I really have to find someone to buy food and clean_, he thought as he watched the crowds. He was prepared to shift for himself if that was what it took to do his job, but that did not include doing laundry.

He doubted it would be difficult to find somebody willing to work for him. There were more beggars than there should have been in such a prosperous city. The merchants were nervous. They bustled around their stalls like ants in sunlight, gossiped in whispers, and fell silent whenever they saw soldiers. A storyteller set up his booth across the square. He got a few laughs but he tidied up his stall and rushed away as soon as a pack of guards arrived.

"Spare a coin for a poor beggar?"

Malik looked up at the outstretched palm of the beggar woman. "No."

"I'm poor and sick and hungry! Alms, _sayyid_?"

Malik handed her the rest of his bread instead and watched as she tossed it into the dirt and went looking for more generous men to pester. It was getting dark and the crowds were already thinning. Malik knew he should return to the bureau, but he was restless. The poor quarter abutted the city walls. The flags that topped the battlements rippled in the breeze. Far below, Malik felt the same wind brush his hair.

Later Malik would blame his impulse on the beggar woman's ingratitude, or the same dark mood that had made him cache the Masyaf surgeon's medicine. Either way, it did not matter. He rose abruptly from the fountain steps and slipped through the crowds to a dark alley near the walls.

The market was near one of the city gates, and some long-dead architect had wedged a beam across the alley mouth to prevent pack animals from entering a street that was too narrow for them to turn around. Malik reached up with his right hand. He touched old, splintery wood with his fingertips, wrapped his hand around the beam and pulled himself up. It wasn't easy. He had thought that he had realized how much strength he had lost over the last month, but he hadn't been close. By the time he dragged one leg over the beam and rose to crouch upon the narrow plank, he was sweating and breathing hard. The beam was high enough that it was above most people's line of sight, but it wasn't enough. He had to get higher.

Malik turned to the wall beside him and began to climb. He found quickly that while climbing was not impossible with one hand, it was difficult. A different technique was called for than the one he had used before, one that involved balancing on his toes and using his arm to find footholds rather than pulling himself up with brute force. Once he got the hang of it, he climbed to the roof without a problem. The air was clean and quiet on the rooftops. The people below looked like miniatures.

Malik looked up at the minaret that jutted from the mosque a few streets away. _Why not_, he decided, and headed for the tower.

Once he was half way up the minaret he could think of any number of reasons for _why not_. The minaret was taller than it had appeared to Malik's casual glance, and there were fewer handholds. The first part of the tower was decorated with deeply grooved patterns. Malik would have considered it no challenge at all, had he both hands. Even with one hand it was not as difficult as he had expected. But the top half of the tower was decorated with shiny _zellj _tiles, and the ceramic made it considerably more of a test.

Malik shifted his weight to the corner of the building, leaning perilously far out in thin air to gain a good grip where the tiles fitted loosely together. _There is no going back_, he told himself. He would never make the descent.

He clambered up another length and his left boot slipped on the tiles. He had already lifted his right foot in preparation for moving it to a more secure hold. As he slipped he took all his weight on his one good hand, and the shock of it nearly made him lose his grip. Malik's hand, slick with sweat, began to slide. Dangling over the Jerusalem rooftops, he cursed. He had only seconds, by his best estimation, before he joined the pigeons he could see as specks rambling atop the tiles far below.

Malik looked to his left, where the corner of the building offered slightly more purchase, and then he let go.

Instead of falling downwards he leapt sideways, and caught at the edge of the tiles with his right hand. He found purchase a fraction of a second before the thin soles of his boots hit the wall. His left boot slipped. His right foothold held. Malik hung for a second, searching for a hold, before he was able to wedge his left toe into a chink in the tilework. Hand aligned above right foot above left foot in an almost straight line, clinging like a lizard with his cheek against the slick tiles, Malik offered up a prayer.

He took more care, after the fall and he took longer. By the time Malik reached the top of the minaret it was full dark. Black coat blending with the darkness, Malik crouched on the parapet and looked out over the city.

_Altaïr has not taken this from me. I can still climb_.

The streets stretched out before him like a map. The layout of the city was much clearer from a height. Malik examined the streets below him carefully, cross checking the information gained with the street layout he held in his mind. There was precious little difference. Satisfied, he smiled, and walked carelessly out onto the parapet.

Like many minarets, this one had a projection on one side, a crane to aid with repairs to the tiles and mud bricks. The plank was wide enough for both of Malik's feet to fit side by side, but not much broader. The rough wood felt like safe ground after the slick ceramic tiles. Over the city walls, the moon rose like a silver coin. The wind whipped at Malik's robe.

Malik spread his arms and jumped. As he fell, he closed his eyes so it was more like flight than falling. Air rushed against his face, warming as he neared the ground, and then there was a thud as his body hit the cart below. Malik shook the hay from his hair and looked around.

He'd landed exactly in the centre of the cart. He couldn't have judged much better if he'd planned it. The minaret had been a tall one, and his body still ached from the shock of the fall, but he was alive. A dog barked among the buildings. It was well past curfew. The city slept around him.

Malik slipped quietly back to the Bureau.

A pigeon from Al Mualim was waiting for him in the Bureau's courtyard when he arrived. It fluttered skittishly from Malik when he approached. Malik tossed his cloak over the bird to catch it. He untied the message wrapped around the pigeon's leg. The writing was tiny, and he had to squint to read it.

_To the dai of Jerusalem, greetings._

_I have sent a messenger with weapons and supplies for the Bureau, as well as books and maps to maintain your disguise as a merchant. It is the Assassin's way to remain hidden in plain sight. Let the people mask you and remain unobtrusive. Above all; do not compromise the Brotherhood. _

_It is imperative that you familiarize yourself with the city as quickly as possible. I have made Mahmoud's informers aware of your new position. Reward them well. Such is the way to the hearts of these people. Send me a message should you need additional coin. _

_Safety and peace._

There was no signature. Malik had not expected one.

The days slid past. Malik hired a cleaning woman. He read and practiced his script while Mahmoud's spies slipped in with scraps of information. He met most of the Jerusalem novices and bought more books, mostly maps. He had discovered he liked maps.

He had a map unrolled on the counter and was pondering the relative frequency of monsters in travelers' tales compared to the real life existence of, for example, copper cities that ate unwary people when somebody pushed the door open and walked in.

"Can I help you?" Malik said without looking up.

"I believe you can," somebody said.

Malik looked up in surprise at the feminine tones. He lowered his gaze quickly and returned to his studies. "You should not be here alone," he said. "Don't you have a husband? Or a brother?"

"My brothers are dead." She frowned. "And that's none of your business."

Malik looked up and caught the woman's eye for the first time. "You are?"

She smiled. She wasn't beautiful, but she had wide dark eyes and a confident manner that Malik supposed men would find appealing. She wore clean but showy clothes, and a tattered veil that was finer than one any proper woman would have worn; designed to titillate rather than conceal. "Oh, I think you know what I am." She looked around. "This room is dingy. I would have thought they would have provided you with a better place than this. Mahmoud's was much more attractive."

"Was it?"

"Yes," the woman said. Her mouth quirked. "But there's usually a garden at the back in these old houses." She looked around and vanished through the arched doorway. "Ah. There it is."

Malik cursed, put down his quill and followed her.

It took him only a few seconds to duck under the arch, but the woman had already made herself comfortable on the cushions by the time Malik arrived. She smiled up at him brightly and patted a cushion next to her. "Much better. Why don't you sit down?"

Malik did not sit. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"My name is Nusaybah bint Khadijah," the woman said airily. She studied Malik carefully with bright black eyes. "And you are Mahmoud's replacement, Malik al-Sayf. I approve. Mahmoud was old and, apart from being an Assassin, not particularly interesting. You are much more interesting. I will enjoy helping you."

Malik had little experience with women, and none at all with women as confident as Nusaybah seemed. He had no idea how to proceed. He settled for politeness. "I am honored. You were Mahmoud's informant. Do you have information for me?"

She nodded.

"So...?" Malik let the question hang in the air.

Nusaybah smiled. "You're too tall. I can't talk like this." She rubbed her shoulder. The sleeve of her shalwar kameez slipped down, revealing creamy skin. "I'm getting a sore neck. Sit down."

Malik sat.

Nusaybah smiled. "Much better. I hear you've already encountered Yusuf al-Asad. Make no mistake, he is dangerous. You should kill him. It would not break the Creed."

Malik gaped. "You are a woman. You know nothing of the Creed."

"I know more than you can imagine." Nusaybah flicked her veil and looked at Malik with wounded eyes. "Tcha! You men are all the same. Yusuf is a tight fisted bastard and I will be glad to see the back of him. And as for his master Majd Addin, well, I don't have enough words to describe what a bastard that man is." She gave Malik a sideways glance. "I don't suppose you have any plans in that direction?"

"That is not for me to say."

"You mean you don't know," Nusaybah said dismissively. "Very well. Yusuf is Madj Addin's captain of the guards, and Madj Addin is Regent of Jerusalem for Saladin. Madj's word is law, and Yusuf reports directly to Madj Addin alone. So he's a powerful man. The Regent's fond of making laws, and those who don't obey are dragged off to the cells." She coughed delicately. "Or hanged. Justice comes expensive, so Yusuf collects the bribes that supply the cash. He takes his cut, of course, so he's a rich man himself, although he doesn't look it. The other guards live in barracks in the grounds of Madj Addin's palace, but Yusuf has his own house not far away on the Street of the Candlemakers. The whole patrol reports to Madj Addin at cockcrow every morning. He gives them their orders, and they leave at the hour the markets open to make their rounds. They break for a few hours in the middle of the day and patrol again at nightfall when it's cool. I don't know their exact route, but they patrol a different district every day. Rich one, middle, and poor district last." She glanced up at Malik through her eyelashes. "You'd be wise to move against him now, before he guesses more."

Malik had no intention of doing anything this woman said without a good reason. "I can deal with Yusuf."

Nusaybah smiled flirtatiously. "I am sure you can. But there is only one of you and Masyaf is a long way away. Yusuf's Madj Addin's man, and Madj Addin is scum, but he is the ruler of Jerusalem." She looked thoughtful. "I have no idea why Saladin named him regent. But now have told you all I know, and now you owe me a favor."

"I would prefer to give you money."

"And I would prefer a favour." She smiled. "Don't look so worried. What could a little thing like me do to harm your great brotherhood?"

Malik could think of a few things. He took refuge in dogma. "I've always found favors far too expensive in the long run."

Nusaybah leaned forwards. She adjusted her kameez in such a way that it drew attention to how low it had slipped and purred. "I think you would enjoy a favour from me."

Malik swallowed. He opened his mouth to reply but was saved from answering by a knock at the door.

"Ignore it," Nusaybah whispered flirtatiously in Malik's ear.

Malik was determined to be interrupted. He rose hastily. "Wait here," he said, and ducked into the shop. He opened the door carefully. "We're closed."

"Malik?" Aisha, his cleaning woman hissed. "There's a salesman here to speak to you. He came to the wrong shop. I told him you were most likely busy, but he wouldn't go."

Malik opened the door wider. A man in a robe the color of ashes stood behind Aisha. He caught Malik's eye and held up a rolled map. "Books, _sayyid_?"

"Of course," Malik said firmly. He turned to Aisha. "You have my thanks. This man is my friend who has brought me the rest of my stock. Tell everyone who calls that the shop will be closed today. I'll need time to sort everything out." He kicked the door open wider. "You might as well wheel the cart straight into the shop."

Aisha glared disapprovingly at Malik. "You'll dirty the floor."

Malik shrugged. He shut the door firmly in Aisha's puzzled face.

"Safety and peace, Malik,"' the salesman said as soon as the door closed.

Malik smiled. "Abbas. It is good to see you alive and in one piece. The Master told me he'd send weapons."

Abbas began to pile books on the floor. "Yes. They're under here. If you'd just give me a hand-" He hesitated.

"No matter," Malik said briefly. "I have come to terms with my injury." _And that is a lie, but you do not know that. _He glanced at the garden door and remembered Nusaybah. "Hold on."

But the courtyard was empty. Nusaybah had gone.

By the time Malik got back inside the Bureau Abbas had removed all the books from the top of the cart. He lifted a belt of throwing daggers and a few swords from the barrow. "Where do I put these?"

Malik pointed to the counter. "Under there."

"Should have known. It's the same in every Bureau. Books on the wall, weapons under the floor, eh? Nothing changes."

"Some things do," Malik said briefly.

Abbas lifted the swords easily. "I can't stay long. I'll help you store this lot, but then I have to go.' He shook his head. "I'm expected in Damascus by the end of the week. And I'm not the only brother on the road. You remember Altaïr?"

Malik was suddenly interested. "What about Altaïr? He was here a few days ago."

"Al Mualim's forced him to earn back his rank. He's got to kill nine men. Nine lives, in exchange for his own."

"It's no more than he deserves," Malik said. Most Assassins did not kill that many men during their entire career. "Besides, maybe one of Altaïr's targets will be faster with a knife."

"Unlikely."

"I know. Still, I can dream. What's that?"

Abbas held up a heavy leather-bound book. "Al-Mualim's history of the Assassins. There are a few more books from his library mixed in with the others. Some blank books, too, for your own observations. Assuming you have any."

Malik took the book. He flicked through the pages and frowned at Al Mualim's indecipherable mirror-writing. "Is that all?"

Abbas pulled a few white feathers from his robe. "Just these."

Malik put the book on the counter and took the feathers from Abbas. They fitted neatly into an earthenware jar. "Anything else."

"Just one thing. I have messages from Al Mualim for several of the novices in the city. Have you any messages for them? I'd imagine you've met most of them, but I thought I would ask anyway."

"No," Malik said automatically, then, "Yes. Ask them to find out all they know about a woman called Nusaybah. She may be a whore. I'm not sure. And I need news of the Regent, Madj Addin."

"Anything in particular?"

"Tell me about his laws. About bribes. About his captain of the guards. That's all."

"As you wish," Abbas said. "Now, if that's all, I must go. I still have a long way to travel, and it will be dark soon." He held up his left hand to display its missing finger. "Safety and peace, Malik."

"Safety and peace, Abbas. Travel well."

When Abbas had left Malik returned to his map. He found it difficult to concentrate, but put that down to the weather. It was a humid summer night and Malik had found that the damp air made his arm more painful.

He almost welcomed the interruption when somebody else banged on the door. He glanced critically around the shop to make sure he hadn't left any weapons behind and opened up. This time the salesman was genuine. Malik recognized Imad al-Isfahani, a wizened man with a Persian accent who wandered the city trading books to anyone who would buy them and convincing unsuspecting citizens that they'd got a bargain.

"Books, _sayyid_?" the Persian asked hopefully. "Maps?"

Malik invited Imad in, glad of the distraction. The salesman unrolled a few maps on the courtyard floor and slid seamlessly into his patter. "This is a beautiful book, sayyid..."

Malik rubbed the vellum of the nearest map between his finger and thumb skeptically and was surprised at the quality of the hide. "This is good work. Where did you find these?"

"I bought them from Ibrahim ben Ishaq in Cairo; who copied them from the archive of Saladin himself," the Persian said proudly.

Malik had not spent a week living among shopkeepers for nothing. "You expect me to believe that? If that were true, the Sultan would have the largest library in the world!"

"It is true indeed!" Imad said indignantly, "And what is more..."

Malik wondered if maintaining his cover was really worth it and settled in for an afternoon of haggling. "You do good business," Imad said finally as he stood up to leave. He left behind a dozen of his finest maps, and a treatise on medicine that Malik had earmarked for Masyaf's surgeon.

"No, I don't."

"No, you don't," Imad agreed, "And that is why I like you. Next time, make tea." He looked around at the packed shelves. "Still, you have a bargain there. I don't know where you will put them, though."

Malik didn't either. The pain in his arm returned as he looked around the shop. The shelves were already full from Abbas' earlier visit. He'd have to pile them on the floor.

Once Imad left he got up to do just that, but hesitated, his gaze drawn back to the heavy teak counter.

In such a small shop, the counter was an obvious place to hide anything. The guards were already suspicious. Maybe this was not the best time to get into a routine. He had time to move the weapons; the only question was where he should hide them.

Malik raised his eyes to the sky if seeking divine inspiration, and found his hiding place.

He spent the time until the evening prayers moving books and weapons around until he was exhausted. He placed the last book in the cache just as the evening _mahgrib_ prayer wailed from Jerusalem's minarets.

There was a knock at the door. "Open up! Tax collectors!"

Malik unbolted the door, wondering as he did what the guards wanted this time. "I've paid my brib-my taxes," he said as he swung the door open, and blinked at the glare of lamplight on mail. The street outside was full of guards.

Yusuf al-Asad pushed the door wider. "I told you I'd be watching you," he said, and smiled. "Assassin."

***

Author's Note:

The plot thickens. Don't have much to say about this one. I based the minaret Malik climbs on one I photographed in Marrakesh. They don't have handily protruding loose bricks in real life. Nusaybah is an Arabicized version of Chell from Dreamworks' El Dorado. She's named after Nusaybah bint Ka'ab; an Islamic woman warrior who protected Muhammad at the battle of Uhud in 625.


	4. Chapter 4

The Length of God's Patience

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Four._

Malik's hand went to his knife. He would have slammed the door closed, but the captain was already in the doorway. He backed away, wondering if he could climb the garden wall before the soldiers captured him.

Al-Asad smiled. "Don't think to escape. I have men stationed on the rooftops outside." He gestured to the soldiers behind him. "Hold him."

The soldiers held Malik by the shoulders. They did not spare his wounded arm. Malik winced. Yusuf noticed, and smiled wider."When I find the weapons, I will cut off your other hand, cripple."

"What weapons?" Malik played dumb. One hand was bad enough, but none? It did not bear considering.

"You lie, Assassin. I know exactly where they are." Al-Asad gestured at the counter. "Check behind the desk."

The guards exchanged glances. One of them approached the desk hesitantly."Where?"

"Under the counter, fool. She said that's where they were."

_She_, Malik thought, _Nusaybah, then. Or Aisha_. He cursed himself for even letting women enter the Bureau. Did the other Bureau heads interview informers in their shops? If he survived, he'd have to find out.

The guard ducked behind the desk. Yusuf paced impatiently. ""What's there?"

The guard resurfaced with a confused expression on his face. "Books, captain. Just books." He held up a text.

"That is where I keep my most precious stock." Malik said. Despite his dangerous situation, he felt like smiling.

"Idiot! Let me look!" Al-Asad marched over to the desk. He grabbed an oil lamp that Malik had left on the desk and lit it. The flickering light cast long shadows over the tense knot of men and weapons. The captain ducked down. Malik heard the sound of tearing paper.

It was no more than a few moments before the captain reappeared, but it felt like much longer. He threw a handful of shredded parchment into a corner and advanced upon Malik. "Where are they?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Al-Asad's face twisted. Malik raised his chin to meet the captain's furious eyes. Al-Asad reached for Malik's left arm. He cupped the fingers of his right hand over Malik's stump and squeezed.

The world went black. Fiery bursts of pain exploded in the darkness behind Malik's eyelids. The pain swept through him like a wave and left him helpless. He doubled over, thrashing like a hooked fish, but the guards held him fast. Once he could think again he tasted blood on his lip. He spat it onto the floor and missed the captain's boots by a finger's breadth.

Al-Asad loomed over him, cheekbones hollow in the lamplight. "A fresh wound, is it? A little too fresh for the Acre siege."

"I am loyal... to... Saladin." Malik gasped.

"I don't know what you are," the captain said, "But I will find out." He gave Malik's arm a final twist and gestured at the guards. "Drop him."

Malik caught himself on hand and knees before he sprawled on the floor. The captain kicked his right hand out from under him and stood looking down at Malik as he rolled on the ground. "I'm still watching you. I will catch you out. And when I do, I'll have you hanged." He beckoned to the soldier. "We're leaving."

Malik waited until he was sure that the soldiers had gone before he got to his feet. He bolted the door and dragged himself outside. The night air was pleasantly cool and he felt better away from the weapons that hung like the sword of Damocles over his head; tied to the roof rafters.

_How far I have fallen_, he thought as he stumbled to the fountain, _that I am threatened by a common guard captain. _

The messenger pigeons had fouled the basin again. Malik mechanically wiped the mess away with his sleeve and drank straight from the jet of water. He set the cushions in the corner of the courtyard directly opposite the door and slumped down with his back against the wall. He rested his good hand on his forehead and vowed revenge.

Al-Asad had to die. The captain would pay for Malik's humiliation with his life. Malik wouldn't set the novices to track the man. He'd do it himself.

_I shall kill him and his master. And I will smile as I slit al-Asad's throat._

Malik slept outside in the courtyard and woke to the sound of stealthy movement in the shop. He rose without a sound. Drawing his knife from his sash, he crept towards the door.

Aisha rummaged behind the desk.

Malik had already positioned himself between the counter and the door before the widow even looked up. Aisha's expression told Malik all he needed to know. She squeaked; dropped the books she was carrying and tried to run. Malik caught her by her sleeve and pushed her back against the counter."What did you tell them?"

She cowered. "They threatened my children."

"You told me you didn't have children."

Aisha moaned. She covered her head with her free hand. "Forgive me."

Malik almost killed her, then and there. He pulled his hand away from the hilt of his knife with an effort, remembering the words in Al Mualim's letter. _Do not compromise the Brotherhood_.

"Please," Aisha wailed. "Have mercy."

"_What did you tell them_?"

Aisha glanced up at him, her face a mask of terror. "They came to me. They called you an Assassin-said you'd come to kill the Regent. They offered me money to prove it, so I told them I'd seen weapons."

"Did you?"

"I thought-"

Malik indicated the torn paper, the open cache;"Do those look like weapons?"

Aisha shook her head.

"What did you expect to find? There are no weapons here." He shoved her away from him like a scorpion. "Get out. You're fired."

Aisha took a few steps towards the door before she paused. "What will I do? Al-Asad-he'll kill me."

"I don't care," Malik said simply. "You should have thought of that before you went to the guards."

She fled.

Malik sighed. It occurred to him that the widow would probably die when the guards found her. He knew that she had no family to protect her, and no money for the bribes that would smooth her way. He shrugged. That was not his problem. Not anymore.

He closed the shop for the day and bought willow bark from the pharmacy in the market near the Bab Ariha gate. Once the pain in his arm had dimmed to the dull ache to which he had become accustomed, he searched the streets for Mahmoud's spies and spoke to all that he could find.

A white robed novice was waiting in the courtyard by the time Malik returned.

"Safety and peace," he said as soon as Malik entered."I've done what you asked. I have the news you seek."

Malik smiled. "Tell me what you know," he said.

By the time the Assassin left at noon Malik had learned a little more. He had a plan. It was a bad plan, but it was still a plan.

_Who knows_, he thought as he strapped on a belt of throwing knives, _it might even work_.

He locked the Bureau door behind him and slipped out into the street.

It was a hot day and the streets were quiet. Malik had no trouble as he made his way towards his destination, a three story house in the old style near the Bab Ourika gate. Most of the houses in the rich quarter hid their wealth behind plain mud-brick walls. This one was different. It stood apart from its neighbors and flaunted its wealth like a courtesan. The intricate carving above the front gate rose nearly to the second floor in a masterpiece of delicate calligraphy. The walls of the house were covered in blue and green _zellj _tiles; the windows covered with grilles of fragrant cedar wood. The windows on the ground floor and on the first storey were tightly closed, but the second floor windows hung open.

Malik wandered into an alley on the south side of the house. He glanced around for observers, found none, and began to climb.

The house interior was just as ornate as its facade. Malik slipped from room to room, his footsteps silent on the polished floorboards. He was lucky. He found his target in the third room that he entered.

Nusaybah looked up as Malik opened the door. She perched upon a padded window-seat with her legs tucked underneath her, holding a small leather-bound book in one hand and a tortoiseshell comb in another. Her eyes narrowed to kohl-lined slits when she saw him, but she did not cry out, Malik had guessed as such.

"Malik al-Sayf," she said dangerously, "You're more interesting than I thought. What are you doing here?"

Malik closed the door behind him. "Looking for you."The lock was well maintained, like everything else in the house. The key made barely a sound as he twisted it. "Keep quiet."

Nusaybah lowered book and comb. "How did you find me?"

Malik shrugged. "It wasn't difficult."

"Come closer so I can talk to you," she suggested.

Malik shook his head. He leant against the wall between Nusaybah and the door. A casual observer entering might not even see him at first glance, and that would give him time to act. "You let me think you were a whore," he said.

"Who says I'm not?"

Malik shook his head. "Whores are thirteen. They're beaten and diseased and if they're lucky they're dead before they're twenty. You're-" he stopped himself from saying _too old_ just in time, "-not thirteen."

Nusaybah smiled. "You're too polite. But I was a whore once, you know." She smiled sweetly, "Rashid ibn Sinan saved me. Married me; too. It's really something, to be raised with nothing to become the wife of one of the most powerful merchants in the city."

Malik knew the answer, but he asked anyway. "You're his wife?"

She nodded. "Yes. Fourth as it happens, but all the others died. Sickness, childbirth, it happens to us all. My ...work left me unable to conceive, but Rashid already had heirs, and he didn't care. Nowadays I'm valued more for my intelligence than my body."

"Why do you help us?"

She shrugged and stretched, lithe as a hunting cat. The amber silk of her robe shone like a jewel against the dark lattice of the window. "Nobody wants the Franj to win. But Rashid-and I, as it happens-have certain ...reservations about the wisdom of Saladin."' She shrugged. "And of course, we're weapons merchants. Peace is bad for business, and your brotherhood keeps everyone on their toes."

"And Yusuf al-Asad?"

"An old client. I have my reasons."

Malik frowned. "That's what I'm concerned about." He tensed for a moment as a soft noise came from underneath the desk.

Nusaybah clicked her tongue. There was an answering mew. A long legged tabby cat crawled out to bump its head against her hand. She gathered the cat into her lap and looked up. "And yet you still came."

"I need a favor," Malik said.

Nusaybah's smile widened. There was a tiny gap between her front teeth. "As I recall, you already owe me."

"This isn't a game."

"You are mistaken. It's the only game." Nusaybah ran a palm along the cat's back. It arched into her hand. "What do you want?"

"How much do you know about the Regent Madj Addin?"

Nusaybah frowned. "What I told you. He used to be the emir's scribe. Saladin made him regent, and now he rules the city on Saladin's behalf."

Malik shook his head. "You're wrong." He didn't wait for Nusaybah to reply before continuing. "Everyone's under the impression that Saladin appointed Madj Addin as Regent because that's what Madj Addin wants everyone to think. He's not. Madj Addin's declared himself regent in Saladin's absence. And Madj Addin and Yusuf al-Asad are both terrified of what will happen to them if Saladin finds out."

"I don't understand." Nusaybah said. "This is valuable. Why are you telling me this?"

Malik sighed. "I want to kill Yusuf. I need you to trust me because I need you to help me."

"Help you how?"

Malik told her. When he had finished, Nusaybah sat back and frowned at him. "That's risky."

"Will you do it?"

Nusaybah pushed the cat from her lap. She stared into space for a second, lips moving. "Does it have to be tonight?"

"I don't want to wait. Madj Addin's death will come later. Yusuf's will be now."

"My, so eager. What did Yusuf do to you?"

Malik wasn't about to discuss the circumstances of his humiliation. "Can you do it?"

Nusaybah nodded.

Malik didn't linger. He unlocked the door and crept out into the corridor. The cat twined around his ankles as he left by the same window he had entered. Nusaybah's laugh drifted through the window grilles as he climbed out and down the walls.

When he had left she frowned, rose from her window seat and summoned one of her attendants. The tabby cat padded at her side as they walked down to the street. Nusaybah's husband's warehouses were annexed to the house for added security. The guards there waved her through. Once inside the compound, she walked straight to the fourth storeroom from the left and gestured to her attendant. "Open it."

The man frowned, but he did as Nusaybah asked. When the door swung open she hitched up her skirts and lit an oil lamp. The golden light gleamed from piles of breastplates, mail coats and helmets as she walked between the aisles.

She found what she had been looking for at the very end of the warehouse. In a large crate, covered with oiled hides to keep the armor dry and rust-free, lay piles of the steel uniform helmets and scale like lamellar armor that the city guards wore.

Nusaybah held her lamp high, and she smiled.

***

The red glow was just draining from the western horizon when Malik checked his weapons one final time and clambered out of the Bureau garden towards the roof. It was al-Khamis, the fifth day of the week. According to Nusaybah, the guards would be patrolling the poor quarter tonight.

It was an easy run. Malik set off at a jog. He climbed up to the roof of the shop next door, ran easily across the sleeping building and jumped to the next building; the end house of a long terrace that ran the whole length of the Street of the Book-Keepers. At the spot where the Street of the Book-Keepers joined the Street of the Scribes Malik leapt from the last roof and grabbed the vine-covered window frame of the house over the street.

It felt good to be out in the night air. There was a pleasant breeze up on the rooftops.

He jumped down onto one of the struts that supported the latticework trellis that sheltered the shops below from the sun. Balancing easily, he leapt accurately from crosspiece to crosspiece down the whole length of the street. A beggar dozing in a doorway did not look up as Malik passed.

The roofs of the poor quarter were even easier to traverse, because the houses were tightly packed together. Malik kept to a sensible pace. He hadn't had time to track the guards' movements accurately, and had to scout around until he found them. Moving so silently that the pigeons roosting on the roofs slept undisturbed, he slipped around the corner of a building and climbed up onto the sloping roof of one of the Franj churches. The Franj architects favored tall buildings, but the church was not large; its roof nearly on a level with the homes surrounding it. Malik hid in the shadow of the tower and peered down on the soldiers below. They lingered; not patrolling as Malik had expected, but huddled in the centre of the square by a small fountain.

Malik counted the soldiers in the courtyard, and then he counted them again. He could only see ten soldiers. Where were the others? The courtyard was small; too small to hold many more. Maybe they were in the shops. But the shops were shuttered tightly. With a sinking heart, Malik guessed where the extra soldiers were. Hardly daring to breathe, he turned his head. _._

Like a puzzle, sacks, chimney pots and bundles of old rags transformed themselves into the huddled form of archers. Malik counted four men that he could see. He looked around for more and found a man stationed at the opposite end of the church roof, so close that Malik could have hit him with a thrown stone.

He'd thought himself lucky. He hadn't realized just how lucky he was.

The archers were well armed, not with Frankish longbows but with crossbows. The longbows required a certain measure of skill. With a crossbow, you didn't need skill. A single bolt would punch a hole the size of a man's fist through anything you cared to aim it at.

_Nothing is true and everything is permitted_, Malik thought as he flattened himself against the tiles, moving each muscle with excruciating slowness_. Including the freedom to go off and get yourself killed, if that is what you wish. _

All Malik had to do was wait. He looked up at the rising moon and calculated how long he had before the zenith. Not long. The shadow sheltered him-for now. At zenith, the moon would be at its full height, and the shadows would disappear, and then he would be seen.

He caught a snatch of conversation from the soldiers below. The fountain provided a certain amount of background noise, but, but the voices of the soldiers were easily audible over the sound of the cascade.

"So d'you think there really _are_ Assassins in the city?

"I doubt it." Yusuf said with a hiss. "If there were, we would find them. They wear white, and white robes make a good target in the dark."

"I heard it doesn't matter what they wear."Cause one glance is all you get before they kill you."

"_I_ heard that they eat babies," another guard said.

If silence had not been an imperative, Malik would have snorted. As it was, he held still and silent, trying not to worry. As long as Nusaybah held up her part of the plan, all Malik had to do was wait. Spreadeagled on the roof, he had plenty of time to think of all the reasons why she might not keep her promise. High ahead, clouds scudded across the face of the moon as it rose with infinite slowness towards zenith.

Eventually, the shadows waned.

***

Author's Note:

The AC wiki mentions that, although the citizens of Jerusalem are under the impression Saladin has appointed Majd Addin regent of Jerusalem, he actually gave himself the title while Saladin was away fighting Richard at Arsuf. Nusaybah's house is modeled after an old caravanserai in the medina of Fes, Morocco, whose name and exact location I can't remember. And yes, I know that in the game the only way to get into the Bureaus is to climb in through the gardens, but with the counters and the shelves they always looked like shops to me. And if they're disguised as shops, there'd have to be some pretence at keeping up appearances, or people would guess that All Was Not As It Seemed.

Author out.


	5. Chapter 5

The Length of God's Patience

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Five._

Malik waited with the patience of a snake as the shadows grew thinner. He did not move a finger.

The nearest archer's gaze raked over the roof.

"What's that?" one of the soldiers said in the courtyard below. The archer's attention snapped back to his fellow. Malik exhaled.

Below him, Al-Asad's head snapped around as a swaying figure staggered from a darkened alleyway in the east side of the courtyard. "Captain?" it panted.

"Come closer. I can't see your face." Al-Asad motioned to one of his soldiers. The guard held a lamp high. Firelight played over the rippling water and gleamed from the scaled armor of the approaching guard.

"Thank Allah!" the soldier spluttered. He reached the circle of lamplight and stood bent over on hand and knees.

"Speak, man!" the captain ordered. "Where have you come from?"

"Bab Ariha." The guard named the main Jerusalem gate. "I have news." He coughed. "News of Saladin."

Al-Asad hesitated, still as a hunting fox. "What news of Saladin?"

"Saladin's coming. He's coming to Jerusalem!"

"When?"

"Now."

"When did you hear this?"

"Just now. I ran all the way-"

"Saladin's still at Arsuf. He could not have travelled so far so quickly."

"He's coming." The guard's voice was ragged. "Ask at the gate if you don't believe me. They have the message."

"Then we're all damned," the captain said grimly. He raised his voice and shouted to the rooftops, "To men, guards! Get down. Now!" He turned to the messenger. 'Give this man some water," he ordered.

The messenger took the cup gratefully. "We don't have much time. He's due in the city at dawn."

"You shall be rewarded." Al-Asad gestured at his men. "You and you, come with me to the gatehouse. The rest of you, go back to the barracks. Await further orders. Send a skeleton crew out on night watch. Understand?"

The knot of men in the courtyard melted away. In the noise and confusion, nobody noticed the messenger slip away.

Malik used the Sight to select his target from the crowd. Al-Asad glowed a brighter red among the dull crimson hue of the other soldiers. The noise of the archers complaining as they clambered down from the roofs masked Malik's descent as he slid from the roof. Once the coast was clear, Malik jumped to the next building, and the hunt began.

The route through the city to the gatehouse was not easy. Malik didn't bother with silence. The sound the guards were making as they jogged along below him covered any noises he might make. After a while they turned into a main street; an easier run because most of the buildings were the same height. A few beggars looked up in surprise as they saw the men race past, but they lowered their eyes as soon as they saw the soldiers. It was not wise to be too observant in Jerusalem. The beggars completely missed the dark figure that slipped above their heads like a fleeting shadow.

The three guards ran quickly to the end of the main street, but they slowed before they reached the junction. A large wagon blocked the way. It had taken the corner too sharply and turned on its side. Someone had already cut the horses free, but broken timber and shattered crates spilled into the street. The wagon had been carrying arrowheads. Malik could see thousands of jagged bodkin points glittering in the lamplight. One of the soldiers swore as his boot landed on a sharp edge.

Malik halted and crept along the edge of the flat roof towards the end of the street. He eased his way to the edge of the roof until he was close enough to hear the soldiers' ragged breathing.

"We'll climb over," one of the men said.

_Don't climb over,_ Malik prayed.

They didn't. Al-Asad pointed towards one of the narrow alleys that ran between the buildings. The houses that flanked the street were lower, allowing Malik to get closer to the men. He almost smiled. The guards filed off down the alley, following their leader. They had slowed from a run to a walk.

Malik followed them for a few strides. When he was sure that they were not being watched he drew a throwing knife from his belt and aimed at the slowest guard.

The Jerusalem guards wore padded gambeson jackets with metal plates sewn to the cloth and metal helmets under turbans. The steel would easily deflect a blade, so Malik didn't bother aiming at the soldier's body. Instead he aimed at the hands-breadth of exposed flesh between the high collar of his coat and the rim of his helmet. The guard slowed even more and Malik adjusted his aim accordingly, loosing the blade just as the man's faster fellows rounded a corner.

It was a good shot. The guard collapsed to his knees and died without a sound. Malik jumped the alley and pursued his colleagues.

The guards still hadn't realized their companion was dead by the time Malik caught up with them. He drew another knife. The next soldier slowed his pace, looking over his shoulder for his friend, and Malik snapped his wrist. He missed. Instead of severing the guard's spine, the knife glanced off his armor and buried itself in the soldier's left leg.

The soldier howled.

Malik didn't look around to see what happened next. He dropped silently from the roof into the courtyard of the next door building and crept towards the street where he would have a better view. They'd guess from the angle of the wounds that the knives had been thrown from the rooftops. He'd have more chance on the ground.

Al-Asad was a good commander despite his faults, He could have run. He didn't. Instead he backtracked to the stricken soldier and knelt behind him. "Who did this?"

The guard moaned. Blood pooled beneath his knees. "I didn't see!" He tried to rise and howled again.

Al-Asad drew his sword. "Come out!" he called.

Malik had no intention of obeying any of the captain's commands. The captain placed a hand on his stricken subordinate's shoulder and spun, searching for Malik.

Malik threw another knife. This time his aim was true. The blade flew just to the left of the captain's hand to slit the injured soldier's throat. Al-Asad jerked his hand away as if he had been stung. The soldier fell on his face and did not move again.

Al-Asad's gaze raked the dusty alley floor. "Show yourself," he called. Sizing up the situation, he backed towards the alley wall. His sabre slashed the air.

Malik stepped out of the shadows of the shop doorway behind the captain. He let the blade of his dagger linger for a fraction of a second on al-Asad's throat, just long enough so the captain knew that he could die. "You were right about me," he told the captain, and cut his throat.

Al-Asad died quickly, but not easily. He gasped, exhaling blood-flecked air as Malik's knife cut deep. When the blade had nearly reached the vertebrae, Malik let the soldier drop. Al-Asad crumpled to the ground.

Malik retrieved his knives. He stole the guards' swords and belt pouches, hoping to make the assault look like a robbery, and left the bodies where they had fallen. There was no chase, no pursuit, He simply climbed up to the rooftops and walked away. On the way back to the Bureau he dropped the weapons and valuables in a latrine.

There was an oil lamp burning at the entrance to the Assassin's Bureau roof garden. Malik moved quietly to the edge of the roof lattice. He crouched down to peer through the framework, nodded, swung himself over the roof and dropped to the ground.

Nusaybah sat cross legged in the corner of the garden. She looked up as Malik approached. The last of the moonlight threw diamonds of light in sharp relief against her face. "The plan worked, then?"

Malik cupped his hands under the fountain and watched blood spiral away down the drain. "How did you guess?"

Nusaybah took him literally. "You're alive," she said."And judging by the blood, al-Asad is dead. Thank you. I'm glad you killed him."

"I had my own reasons." Malik dipped his knife in the water to rinse blood from the blade. "Now go. It's getting late."

Nusaybah did not move. She held a finger to her lips and smiled secretly.

Malik considered his options. He could hardly throw Nusaybah out into the street if she did not want to go. He leant against the wall a safe distance from her and watched her warily."What do you want?"

She shrugged. "You surprised me in my home," she said."I thought it was only fair to return the favor. Besides, that's two favors you owe me."

"I'm going to sleep."

Nusaybah's smile spread across her face as slowly as pouring honey. "That suits me fine." She cupped her chin in her hands. "Although maybe we can do more than sleep."

"I-"

"I'm good at massages, too." Nusaybah said innocently. "Your arm must hurt. I can help that."

"No."

"Why not? You Assassins only cut off your fingers, not anything else."

"You can't solve everything with sex."

"Why not? You think everything can be solved by fighting!' She ran her hands salaciously down her body. "You don't want me?"

"Not that-"

"I'm not pretty? You like men? You don't want to sleep with a married woman?"

"I don't want to sleep with a woman I can't trust," Malik said, accurately if not tactfully.

Nusaybah laughed. "You can trust me!" She took one look at Malik's doubtful face and laughed out loud. "You don't look convinced! I said that you were wise. Be assured that I am not so stupid to make an enemy of your Al Mualim. I will leave that to lesser men."

Malik decided then and there that the best thing to do was ignore her. If there had been a door between the garden and the Bureau he would have shut and locked it. As there was none, he went into the shop and began to sort through his clothes chest. The absence of clean clothes in the chest made him wonder where he would find a replacement for Aisha. He ached for a bath, but that would have to wait until later. He'd have to make sure that all trace of al-Asad's blood was gone before visiting the bathhouse.

Soft hands pressed on his shoulders. "It'd practically be a public service," Nusaybah said from behind him. "Do you know how tense you are?"

Her body was warm and soft and it moved in interesting ways as she pressed against him. Malik closed his eyes. Nusaybah smelt of musk and sandalwood.

_I am not sleeping with this woman_, he decided as her fingers eased some of the tension in his body.

He turned around and captured her wrists in his hand. Nusaybah looked startled at the speed of his movement for a moment, but only for a moment. She reached up and kissed him.

Malik's thoughts flew like startled pigeons.

Driven by one of the most basic human needs, he pulled Nusaybah to him. She clung to him.

"No," he said, he said, his eyes still closed.

Nusaybah's hands moved downwards. Unlike Malik, she had two to spare. "It's like dancing," she said. "You don't forget the steps."

"I don't dance," Malik murmured against her neck.

"It's a metaphor." She pressed against him, demanding more. It suited Malik well. He pinned her against the wall and bit her neck. Nusaybah moaned. "Outside."

Malik picked her up. He carried her outside. He laid her down on the cushions and untied her sash. She wore many layers of clothing and they all fell open far too easily. _She's planned this_, he thought, and didn't care.

The messenger pigeons watched from the rafters as they danced another, older dance. Above them the lamp Nusaybah had lit guttered and burned out unnoticed in the dawn light.

***

Al-Asad's guards didn't find their master until dawn, and by then it was far too late. Lieutenant Abdul Rahman stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword and surveyed the carnage. The three bodies sprawled in the bloodstained dust. The corpses' swords, money pouches and armor had been stolen. A dozen different footprints marked the alley floor around them.

Abdul Rahman was not surprised. It was a poor area. For all of Madj Addin's laws against theft, there would be many people prepared to risk death or disfigurement for a few coins and a bit of extra food.

He glanced up at the shabby houses that surrounded him and sighed.

One of the other guards sidled towards him. "Who did it?"

Abdul Rahman shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "Let's talk through this one more time. You said you met a messenger?"

The guard nodded. "Yes. He told us that he came from the gate, and he told us that Saladin was coming."

"And you believed him?"

"_Sayyid_, he wore our armor! It was dark!'

"You didn't recognize him?"

"No, but there are many soldiers in the city. That's not unusual."

"Search the city," Abdul Rahman said. "I want that man."

The guards searched the city, or at least those parts of it too poor or unimportant to protest at the intrusion. They never found the man, although they did find some of the murdered men's less valuable possessions in the houses in the poor quarter. The inhabitants protested that they'd found the soldiers already dead; that there had been no sign of their murderer. Abdul Rahman had the inhabitants tortured anyway, and when they didn't change their story he decided that they were telling the truth.

When no further evidence turned up, he closed the investigation. With al-Asad dead, the path was clear for the captain's loyal second in command Lieutenant Abdul Rahman's promotion.

And he'd never liked the bastard anyway...

***

Malik woke late, at midday, when a pigeon landed on his head. Even half-asleep, Malik was still fast. He grabbed the pigeon before it had a chance to fly off. Its heart beat rapidly in his hand as he unrolled the message and let it go. Note in hand, he fell back onto the cushions and looked around. Nusaybah had vanished. A small nest of silk cushions pushed up against the wall bore testament to her presence. A thin silk veil fluttered on the tiles.

Malik shook his head. He hadn't expected to fall asleep, not with a lifetime of Assassin's training behind him and a woman he still didn't trust next to him. He had.

He blinked sleep from his eyes and read the message.

_To the dai of Jerusalem, greetings_

_I have ordered Altaïr to kill Saladin's scribe Madj Addin. The Regent of Jerusalem should learn what becomes of men who lift themselves up above others. Your task is to aid Altaïr in this mission in any way you can. Do not fail me._

_Safety and peace._

Malik smiled. Madj Addin would be dead within days.

Maybe Altaïr had his uses, after all.

***

Finis.

Author's Note:

Title quote from...somewhere. This started off as an Altaïr/Maria* story a while ago, and I have a nasty feeling that the title came from some sort of Arabic love poetry. It's the only bit left over from that story, but I liked it. Malik is a patient man; or at least more so than Altaïr, who has the patience of a velociraptor on amphetamines.

If you got this far, you deserve a medal. And if you got this far, then I've entertained you or otherwise for a good half an hour; please take a few seconds to tell me what you thought.

*The fic soon stopped being Altaïr/Maria; because I soon figured out I can only write Altaïr as the straight guy in a double act. Guy has no personality whatsoever alone. So romance was sort of a non-starter.


End file.
